


A Rift in Time

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Time Travel AU, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: Detective Emma Swan has just lost her husband, Neal, and is back in the field for the first day since, searching for Mayor Gold's missing wife. But a rift in time in his basement takes her back to 19th century Boston, where she meets someone who makes her question going back.





	1. Chapter 1

“Swan, I've told you time and time again, I don’t feel comfortable putting you back in the field yet, for your own safety.”

“Captain, please. A cold case, a missing persons, anything. Just please give me something to do around here that doesn’t involve sitting behind a desk all day..”

Captain David Charming strides across his office and closes the door. “Emma, please. It’s only been two months since Neal’s death, and you haven’t been cleared for the field yet -”

“Because you haven’t let me take the psych exam!” Emma turns and looks at the closed door. “Why did you fight so hard to get me back to the precinct, back on my feet, if you're not going to continue to fight for me, dad? You know that I want to spend my time solving mysteries, arresting criminals and bettering Boston, not sitting behind a desk all day, making coffee and doing other people’s paperwork.”

“Emma, you know I can't promise anything.”

“Fine, dad. You know what, never mind. Forget I even brought it up, again.”

As Emma turns to storm out of her father's office, another detective knocks on the door, then opens it.

“Captain, uh, Detective. I'm sorry to interrupt, but, uh, Mr. Gold is back. Again.”

“And there are still no leads on where his wife has disappeared to?”

“Wait, Mr. Gold, as in the mayor of Boston?” Emma asks.

Sergeant Locksley gestures to Emma with his eyes. “Should we be discussing the specifics of the case with her in here, Captain? She’s not technically back in the field, and you said yourself that you didn’t want word of this getting out”

“Detective Swan works for this department the same as you or I do, Robin. There's no reason to withhold any of this from her. Besides, I trust her more with information like this than I do some of the men outside this door”

“But, Captain”

“But nothing, Locksley,” Emma spits back. “You heard what he said.”

“Emma, please,” David says quietly, before a screaming match breaks out in his office. Again. “Robin, go on.”

His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard before he finally answers David's question. “No, sir. We’ve been trying to contact Miss French’s family, companions, anyone who has been seen with her recently, but so far we have been unable to reach anyone.”

“Put your best people on this, Robin. I want his wife found before anything is leaked to the press. Start by searching their house again.”

“Yes, sir. We'll begin right away.”

David turns to his daughter, thinking, then calls out, “And Robin?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let Detective Swan ride with  you. Do everything as you would do, just with her beside you.”

“Captain?”

“That's an order, Robin.”

With no further objections, he turns and leaves David's office. Emma's eyes are wide, full of excitement, and she quickly embraces her father.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I won't let you down!”

David gently kisses her temple.

“I know you won't.” As she starts out of his office, he calls her name once more, and she turns back.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Try not to fight with them, okay? For me.”

“I'll try my best.”

The smile on her face makes David sure that he made the right decision - hopefully his superiors will have at least a partially open mind.

 

On the way to the crime scene, the awkwardness hangs in the air through a silence so thick that Emma can feel it between her slender fingers. She purposefully hadn't spoken to Robin since he poured her pot of coffee down the drain and told her she was “good for absolutely nothing” since she “can't make a goddamned pot of drinkable goddamned coffee” on her first day back, knowing full well that it had only been three weeks since her husband died and she was, as expected, a little frazzled.

But Robin’s partner, August, was even more of an issue, and a face that she had been trying her best to avoid since the night of Neal’s funeral, when they found themselves at the same bar, almost entirely blackout drunk, and heavily made out in the alleyway before Emma’s conscience caught up to her and she lost the contents of her stomach all over the pavement - and his shoes. She was mostly ashamed of herself, for letting herself get that bad that quickly, but deeper down, she was also embarrassed to be seen by him, and had, for the most part, succeeded at avoiding being in the same room as in since she returned to the precinct.

Yet here she was, riding along with the two men that she had been trying her best to avoid. But none of that mattered to her - all that mattered was that she was back in the field, with the permission of the Captain, working on a case that was actually _important_ : the mayor’s missing wife. And she was thankful.

She had met Miss French once, personally, at one of the mayor’s many charity dinners, many of which she accompanied her father to, but some of which she went to with Neal, when they were both home from work at the same time. By the time they finally got married four years ago, though they had been together since they were teenagers, Neal had become editor of the Boston Globe, and Emma had just made Detective, so the time that they had together was already stretched thinner, and only made thinner when you factored in whether they were free long enough to go out for the whole evening, not to mention awake enough to attend an event as important as the mayor’s dinner.

But during the few chances she did have to attend, she was always surprised by just how different the mayor and his wife seemed. Where Mr. Gold was quiet, only speaking when necessary - and sometimes even not then - his wife was friendly and open, willing to not only speak with anyone that would have her company, but _converse_ with them, allow them to take part in her conversations. Growing up, Emma had met so many snooty old rich women, women who either stuck to their circles and never left them, or who loved the sound of their voice so much that they would talk to whoever they thought was listening just to talk. Miss French was far from being categorized among these women.

There was one time in particular, the dinner held just after her father had been made Captain of the Boston Police Department, that she had been seated next to Miss French because her father was the guest of honor. She remembers the night well - she was very proud of her father, and he deserved the position he was given. And she told Miss French this in passing, a comment made merely to be polite - and then spent the rest of the evening talking with her of her own time at the academy, of what it was like being raised by a policeman and a kindergarten teacher, her college days spent in the heart of Boston, when Neal was merely an intern with the Globe. No one else had ever really taken that much of an interest in her, especially not anyone near as important as the mayor’s wife.  

And now, she is missing.

As much as she has come to be comfortable in the awkward silence of the car, she must know more about this case before they get to the mayor’s house, so she breaks it. “What do we know about the case?”

“Emma, come on, we can’t just - “ August starts, but Robin stops him.

“No, August. She’s coming with on the case, she at least deserves to know something.”

Emma swallows, thankful. “I appreciate that, Robin.”

He smiles at her through the rear-view mirror, a smile that reminds her of her father and his protection.

August lets out a very audible sigh, not trying at all to hide his anger at the sergeant, but tells Emma what he knows anyway. “The mayor came to use four days ago for the first time, worried about his wife. He said he came home from a meeting and she wasn’t at home, which is where she was every other night when she got home. We told him that he couldn’t file a missing persons until she was gone for 24 hours, which she was not. But your father - uh, the Captain - had us look through his house anyway, for any kind of sign of struggle or anything, but we came up with no avail. He’s been back at the precinct every day since then, though, and we talked to her family that we could contact and the people she worked with at the library, but this is the first time your father sent us to his house since that first day.”

Robin smiles at her again. “Maybe he assumes you’ll see something that we missed the first time, Emma.”

“I doubt that,” August says, scoffing.

Robin slaps his arm with the back of his hand. “One day, August, she will outrank you and kick your ass.”

“I can kick his ass now, sarge, no problem.”

Emma and Robin laugh together, but August just mopes in his seat, and they pull up in front of the mayor’s house: a large, Victorian-style mansion on the outskirts of the city, brick and maroon with bright white trim. The house seems to be three stories, but Emma notices small windows at ground-level - a basement, not that odd for a house from this time period, but not very common, either.

The house had never been empty in the few times Emma had been there before, and while the lack of company makes it seem larger, the silence gives it another feel: abandoned, haunted, somehow stuck in the past. Robin leads her through the large, echoing house, and there is something about it that, to her, just seems… off. As if, without the parties - or maybe without Miss French herself - the house is asleep, turned off, without movement within. Even the parlor, the room that held the most life during the dinners held by the mayor, is eerily silent.

The rest of the house is the same, seemingly asleep without its matron. She follows her sergeant through the house, searching everything - though she has no idea what she is looking for. They search in silence for near an hour, ruffling through desks, books, chests of information.

“Is this everything?” she asks, finally, in the furthest upstairs chamber.

Robin’s eyes widen at her, as if he does not understand her question, before he says, “Well, yes, this is everything. Mayor Gold led us through himself last time.”

“What about the basement?”

“Houses like this don’t have basements, Emma,” August spits at her, and she whips around to face him.

“I take it you failed the notice the window wells, then, Booth?”

“The - the window wells?” August looks hurt, as if her realizing something he missed physically pains him - and this thought makes Emma smile.

“Yes, but I take it your superior detective skills failed to detect something as simple as windows.” She does not give either of them time to respond, but instead rushes out of the chamber and back down the stairs, searching for the door to the basement. In the kitchen, she finds a single maid that was not there before, an older blonde woman sitting with the newspaper and a cup of steaming tea.

“Excuse me, miss?” Emma asks, quietly knocking on the trim of the doorway, and the woman looks up in alarm, almost spilling her tea all over her pressed white apron.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dearie,” the woman responds, her voice thick with an English accent. “Master Gold is not on the premises right now.”

“No, no,” Emma replies, pulling her badge out from under her bright red jacket. “You misunderstand, ma’am. I’m - I am a detective, looking for Miss French. Actually, right now, all I am looking for is the basement?”

“Aye, it’s about time someone asked about it.” She sets her tea cup on the saucer, and the newspaper down next to it on the table, then leads her out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the library. “So, now that you have asked, I see no reason to keep this from you, for you must be smart enough to have seen something that led you in the right direction.” She runs her finger along one of the shelves, then takes out a book from the shelf. And another, from the shelf below it. Leone came and asked the right questions. I was wondering how long it was going to take.”

“So is that where the answer is, Miss…?”

“Potts, dear. Mrs. Potts. And yes, the basement is worth a search, at least.”

“Why have you not brought it up to the police before, Mrs. Potts?”

“I swore to Master Gold that I would never bring it up, though there was no stipulation for someone that came and asked about it.” Emma has nothing to say in response to this, so she just watches as the lady sets her tea cup down on the saucer and folds the paper down next to it. Standing up, she slides past Emma in the doorway and leads her down the hallway and into the library.

Running her index finger along the bookshelf, she removes a single book from the shelf, then one from the shelf below it; lastly, she walks over to the fireplace and places her palm on the mantle - and the bookshelf slowly begins to slide backwards, then open inwards as a door, something right out of one of her father’s spy movies. Emma does not believe her eyes, but the woman leads her down the stairs anyway, torch in hand, and the bookshelf slides back into place. For the moment, she has forgotten about her companions, but over the sound of the sliding bookcase, she can hear them on the steps above her, especially the thudding of August's clunky boots.

“They are not worthy of this secret, madam,” Mrs. Potts said to her, obviously also hearing them on the steps. The last things she hears before the bookshelf snaps back into place is August, calling out her name.

At the bottom of the steps, the stairway opens into a single very large room, `which illuminates itself when they cross through the doorway. Emma takes a moment to look around the room, and realizes something:

“A library,” she whispers, and Mrs. Potts turns to her, smiling.

“Yes, dearie. Take a look around. I’ll wager you’ve never seen a library like this before.”

Emma does just that, taking a stroll around the perimeter of the room, gently touching the bookshelves, taking a look at the titles, but nothing sounds familiar to her. All of the books look old, worn, as if they are hundreds of years old, but still well taken care of. On the opposite side of the room, where she thought the wall was lined with shelves, she discovers that there are, in fact, _rows_ of shelves - at least ten of them. And in the very corner, hidden from the world, sits a lone, old-fashioned roll-top desk. Emma looks around, though she does not know why, and then sits down in the chair in front of it. It is packed full of papers, notebooks, and books, but it is all so very organized.  Emma is almost afraid to touch anything, it all seems so perfect, but she can’t stop herself: she runs her hand across the bare wood of the work space, then against the row of matching hardback books on the top shelf.

And then the weirdest thing happens: in the farthest corner of the basement, far away from any doors or windows, Emma feels a breeze, just enough to rustle the ends of her hair and prove to her it was real. She looks around for any logical explanation, but sees none. Jumping up, she walks back to the bottom of the steps, only to find that Mrs. Potts standing there, smiling at her. She leads Emma up the steps, and to her surprise, they find an open doorway where before there was only the back of the bookcase.

She doesn’t notice at first, but the room is entirely different than the one that she left, though the shelves of books are all the same. Where before there were light fixtures, sconces against the wall, there are now torches of fire; the floors, which were worn and scuffed, now look brand new. But she does not notice any of this. Instead, she is only asking herself one question: “Where the _hell_ are August and Robin?”

She makes it back down the hallway and into the kitchen before she realizes the most obvious difference: where before, the only person in the house was Mrs. Potts, the kitchen is now alive with movement, almost a dozen women of all ages scattered throughout it.

“Mrs. Potts,” Emma says finally. “What - What the fuck is going on?”

The old woman smiles at her. “Welcome to the nineteenth century, Detective Swan.”

Emma has no response. She feels her mouth hanging agape, but she cannot even find it in herself to snap it closed.

After a moment, Mrs. Potts takes her by the arm and pulls her up the stairs. “Now, my dear, we must find you more appropriate clothing for the time.”

Though she is still beyond confused, Emma follows her up the stairs and into the farthest chamber, where she knocks on the door. After a moment, it is opened from the inside, to reveal the mistress of the house, the missing Miss French.

“Why, Detective!” Miss French greets her, and Emma is even more surprised, first by her being there, then again by the fact that she remembers her name. “What brings you to my house? Something important enough to allow you to search the basement, I assume?”

This is enough to finally break Emma’s silence. “Well, yes, Miss French. Your husband reported you missing, and my father sent me to search the house for you, because the men I work with are apparently not thorough enough to notice your house has a basement.”

“Well, yes, my dear, that’s because not everyone can see the windows,” Mrs. Potts says.

“Excuse me?”

Miss French is the one who responds: “My husband has the house protected by spells, Detective. Spells that no one should be able to break through, though why you were able I am unsure.”

“How do I get back?”

“Oh, my dear, it doesn’t work like that,” Mrs. Potts says.

“What does that mean? How do I - I need to get back.”

“It’s not so much like a portal as it is like a… a rift, I guess is the right word for it.”

“A… a rift? So you’re saying I’m -  I’m stuck here, in the nineteenth century, until… the house feels like sending me home?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.”

Emma takes a deep breath, still trying to wrap her head around everything that has happened over the past few minutes, then comes to a conclusion in her head: “I need something to drink, badly. Where is the nearest bar?”

Miss French smiles at her. “Just down the road, but you’re going to have to change first.”


	2. Chapter 2

The whiskey does not help her understand everything that is going on, not even a little. The next day, it does little more than the first. And by the third day, she has caught the eye of some regulars, though she never does more than drink.

Miss French continues to insist that Emma joins her at the house for meals - and insists that Emma refer to her as “Belle,” and not “Miss French” anymore, and while it feels weird in her mouth the first few times, referring to the mayor’s wife by her first name, the two of them are quick to form a companionship.  

Between lunch and dinner, the two of them go for walks around the city, a city that, in another time, Emma had already come to know as her own. But, two hundred years in the past, Boston gives her a different kind of feel, like returning to your childhood home for the first time in years. It is familiar to her, in an eerie way, though entirely different than how she knows it to be.

Weirder still for her, however, is the dress. Belle tried to get her to try on long, bustled dresses over tight corsets, since her jeans and t-shirt would no longer be appropriate for the time. While the dresses made her incredibly uncomfortable, she took well to the corsets, which she wore over button-down shirts with floor-length shirts and knee-high boots, which for some reason she found more appealing than the dresses, even though she may not have looked as distinguished as Belle wished she had. But at least she blended in better than before.

About a week into their acquaintance, Belle uses the opportunity of the stroll to tell Emma about why this is when the house is connected to in time, something that Emma had not even considered to be important until then.

“My husband was a far different man when we met,  a man which you might meet during your time here. But the ways that he might come across in this time, the person that he is here… I promise you, Miss Swan, he is not that person anymore. But in this time, he is not Mr. Gold, or even anyone like him. No, in this time, he is known as the Dark One, and is… well, he may not be the nicest man. He has done things that I am not proud of, that he is not proud of anymore, in our time.” They take a moment’s break, waiting to cross the street to the east side of town, towards the harbor, and Emma stays silent because she has no idea how to respond. Once they get to the other side of the road, Belle continues: “But the most important thing is that he cannot figure out that the two of us are connected to the future, that _he_ is connected to the future. The man that we both know, Mayor Gold, he knows about the past, everything he was, all he has done. But who he is now, the - the thing that my husband used to be, he doesn’t. And it would change him forever, for the worse, if he were to find out.”

Belle stops, resting her hand on Emma’s arm, and when she looks into her eyes, she can see the seriousness of the conversation mirrored in them.

“Emma, promise me you won’t tell him - tell anyone - that you’re from the future.”

“Yes, Belle. Of course.” She half-smiles at her companion. “I don’t know that I could even if I wanted to.”

This, finally, causes Belle to smile back. “Thank you,” she whispers, and they’re on their way again.

Their walk takes them down to the docks, a place that Emma spent so much time as a little girl, on the shoulders of her father. It is here that something catches her eye: a vessel, much like those her father loved, an old-fashioned military ship in perfect, pristine condition. But the man that stands aboard this ship, a tall, dark-haired man in a long leather jacket, draws her eyes towards him. He looks familiar, a face she has seen before, though even she can’t say where at first. Belle must sense that the familiarity of him catches her off guard, and she stops beside her on the sidewalk, following Emma’s eyes in the direction of the docks.

“Why do I know that man, Belle?” Emma asks, realizing that Belle stands besides her.

“Captain Jones, you mean?” Emma turns to her to find her smiling. “Given the only place he goes besides his ship is the same tavern you have been frequenting, I would assume that is why you recognize him.”

Looking back at the man, she places him just there, usually at a table in the corner, keeping to himself - until the liquor kicks in, and then he becomes loud and rowdy, especially towards the dark-haired girl that he always had with him, with his love and affection for her. In the streets Emma worked, she would have hauled him off, thrown him in a cell for the night for a drunk and disorderly.

But these are not her streets, and she has no jurisdiction in nineteenth century Boston.

She has never seen him outside of the lightless tavern, and she realizes that this is why she did not immediately recognize him. Where in the tavern he is dark, mysterious, hidden, he seems to be a completely new person in the light of day, aboard his ship. His darkness is illuminated on the water, and even with the distance between them, she can make out his features better than she ever could by the firelight of the tavern.

He reminds her of a movie star, or a front-page model. If cameras existed, he would find himself behind them on a regular basis. Rugged, refined, in a James Dean sort of way, but still with the aura of a… well, of a pirate.

The next night in the tavern, she realizes that she cannot take her eyes off of him, a man that not two days ago she would not have even given a second glance to. But after seeing him in his glory, in the light of the sun, something about him draws her eyes to him, then draws her to him, walking across the tavern to the table where he sits with the dark-haired woman and a few other men, which Emma takes to be some of of his shipmates. As she approaches, the conversation slowly stops, and when she stops next to their table, the Captain is the only person still talking, though it stops when he realizes none of his mates are looking at him anymore.

When he turns to face her, she, too, stops in her tracks. She notices something here that she was unable to see from the distance of the dock: his piercing blue eyes, bright even in the lowlights of the fire. After a moment of silence between the whole party, he is the first to speak, his voice a low growl coated in a thick English accent:

“Aye, love, what can I do for ya?”

It is not until this point that Emma realizes that she has not yet thought about anything beyond approaching the table, and she has no response - well, she says something, but it comes out sounds more like, “Uh, I - uh, ba-ba-ba,” and she purses her lips for a moment, before the dark-haired woman speaks, covering for her before she makes a complete fool of herself.

“I haven’t seen you around these parts before, my dear. Until just a few days ago, at least. Are you new around here?” Her voice is soft, a whisper of the wind, not at all what Emma imagines from a woman that hangs out with men like Captain Jones; and when she smiles at her, Emma can’t help but smile back.

“Yes, you could say, uh, that I’m from a different land entirely.”

“Well, love, we know all about different lands ‘round these parts.” He sounds serious, but when she turns to face him, he flashes her a wicked smile, scratching the corner of his lip with his pinky, a movement that draws attention to the two large rings that adorn his hand. “Where is it that you’re from?”

This is a question that catches Emma off guard, something that had not crossed her mind with her previous response. She tries to think of anywhere else that she knows as well as she does Boston, but there is nowhere, especially not places that even exist at this point in time. So she decides on the only other place she has been, somewhere that she knows just enough about to get by: “Philadelphia. Pennsylvania. Just a little down the coast from here.”

“Aye, we’ve sailed in and out of there before. What part of the city?”

Before she even has a chance to answer, the woman reaches across the table and rests her hand on the Captain’s, stealing his attention. “Killian, don’t interrogate the poor girl. She’s just trying to make conversation.”

Emma smiles at her, but she is too caught up in the bright eyes of the Captain, who has taken her hand in his own, sliding his thumb against the back of her hand.

One of the shipmen seated beside the Captain must sense the awkwardness of the situation and speaks up, asking, “What’s your name, Lassie?”

“Emma, sir. Emma Swan.” She remembers the few lessons Belle has given her on mannerisms, and curtseys politely to the group of sailors.

“Well, Miss Swan,” the Captain says, pulled out of his trance. “The pleasure is all ours.”

“What brings you here to our little corner of the tavern?” the dark-haired woman asks. “I’m Milah, by the way, and this is Captain Jones.” She pats the seat next to her, and Emma accepts the invitation.

“I - actually, I saw you earlier, down at the docks? And your - your ship, Captain, is glorious. Beautiful.”

The Captain scratches the corner of his mouth with his pinky again, smiling across the table at her. “Aye, she is a beauty, isn’t she? Pride of my damned life, the _Jolly Roger_.”

Milah coughs, trying to get him to understand what he has just said wrong, but then she smiles at him again.

Captain Jones leans across the table towards Emma, resting on his forearms, a gleam in his eye that reminds Emma of criminals, proud of their misdeeds, and when he continues, she discovers why: “She used to be called _The Jewel of the Realm_ , when she sailed under the King’s banners and was captained by my brother. Until I seized it for my own, no longer sailing under the colors of a man who would purposefully send out countries to death and war.”

Emma now puts it together, what brings them to this land with their gorgeous ship: _pirates_. Real life pirates, here in front of her, right in her city that is not her city. The thought sends a chill down her back, and she feels her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. In any other situation, like anything she had found herself in before, she would be able to pull a badge, take these criminals to where they belong like she was trained to do; but here, in this town two hundred years before her own, she wants to do nothing of the sort. In fact, the truth of this excites her, gives her something other than Belle in this time, and she can’t help but smile across the table at her new companions.

“If you were to stop by the docks on the morrow, Miss Swan, we would be glad to give you a better tour than just eyeing her up from the lane,” Milah says, but gives Emma no time to reply before changing the subject. “Now, what are you drinking, dear? Least we can do is buy some poison for our new friend.”

“Whiskey, if you please,” she replies. “And I’m afraid I will be unavailable tomorrow, but the next day, I will surely take you up on that offer.”

 

But she does not get the chance. After spending the next day with Belle planning their next party, going about the town to hire chefs, orchestras, dressmakers, more work than Emma thought necessary for just one night, she finds herself back in the comforting darkness of the tavern. Something about it seems off at first, and halfway through her first whiskey, she realizes just what it is: the _silence._ Usually, the tavern is full of drunken, rowdy men, mostly sailors - _pirates_ \- but tonight, none of them are here.  

She flags down the barmaid for another glass, and asks, “Do you know where the group of sailors is? From the _Jolly Roger_?”

The barmaid smiles at her, a tall, lean woman in a tight corset and a skirt that barely reaches her knees, with a bright red cloak as the staple, a woman that Emma had seen working the tavern before, but had not had the opportunity to speak with her yet, since she usually catered only to the pirates. Emma knows she has heard them use her name, but it takes her a moment to remember it: Ruby.

“You've taking a liking to the pirates, eh?” Emma feels the blood run to her face, thankful for the low lights of the tavern to save her from further embarrassment, but Ruby either does not notice it or ignores it, instead leaning across the bar towards her. “I heard someone talking about it this morning, that the Dark One came on to the ship to take his wife back.”

“What - the Dark One? Was she - Milah was the Dark One’s wife?”

Ruby's eyes go wide with the excitement of hot gossip. “Well, yeah!” Surprisingly enough, Ruby reminds Emma of a schoolgirl, specifically one of the ones that work in the coffee shop down the block from her apartment, always excited to tell her customers about the gossip of the day, from school, from the tabloids. “She was married to the Dark One, gave him a son, and then ran off to be with the Captain. But today, he - he was in this rage, they say, and ripped her heart from her chest, then chopped off his hand and let her die in his arms.”

It takes Emma a moment to wrap her brain around everything Ruby just said to her - and so nonchalantly, as if none of it were out of the ordinary. But, even after the moment, she only seems to have one concern: “He - is he okay?”

“Captain Jones? He’s a strong man, has been through a lot already. Losing his brother, losing everything but his ship and the people that followed him.”

“But that - this is a big thing to happen, Ruby. Just because you’ve been through a lot doesn’t mean that you won’t fall apart one day.”

“You know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?” Ruby asks with a slight smile, one that Emma can’t help but return, just as the door slams open and lets in a burst of fall Boston air, something that hasn’t changed over two hundred years, apparently - and with this comes the hulking body of Captain Jones, swaggering drunk through the door.

Emma has seen the likes of him before, and it was exactly what she was hoping would _not_ happen, that he would try to drown himself out of his worries at the bottom of a bottle - and liquor seems to have more of an affect now than it does in the future.

Much to Emma’s discontent, Captain Jones seems to have come looking for a fight. He takes a swing at the man who tries to pass him in the doorway, who thankfully sees it coming and ducks out of the way.

Emma feels her blood quicken at the sight of him, then the rush of adrenaline when she realizes his current state. She does not know where it comes from, her sudden need to make him better, but whatever the source, it causes her to fly off her bar stool to his aid, just as he takes another swing, and this time the man is not lucky enough to duck out of the way. In the quietness of the bar, Emma can hear the _crack_ of Jones’ fist against the man’s face, who then flies backwards away from the table, his chair clattering against the stone floor - and then his body. She watches as he chooses another chair, momentarily holding it over his head before throwing it across the room, aiming not at a person, but at the wall - his goal not to hurt others as he is hurting, just to destroy.

It is not until now, when he holds the chair above his head, that Emma notices his wound, remembers what Ruby told her: the Dark One _chopped off his hand_ , though it appears that someone had at least patched up the wound for him.

Emma can do nothing but watch as he upends a table, spilling its contents upon the floor, a clattering of plates and shattering glass filling the bar.

The thing that surprises Emma the most about this whole situation is not the rage of the Captain; no, it is the reaction of the others in the bar. Every other bar fight Emma has witnessed had caused the bar to go up in figurative flames - and once, literal ones.

But here, in this situation, led by the heartbroken and raging drunk pirate captain, no one else in the bar seems to want to join in on the riot. Instead, by this point, all eyes are on him - and when he goes to make his next assault, he seems to realize this very thing. He takes a moment to look around the bar, his eyes wide, as if he has just realized what he was doing. When he finally meets hers, there is something oddly familiar about the gleam in them, and it is only after he passes out and is unconscious on the floor that Emma remembers just what that gleam means.


	3. Chapter 3

Awkwardly, she pulls his unconscious body from the doorway to the closest wall, struggling until a good samaritan runs to her aide, helping her set his body in a sitting position. When they do finally have him against the wall, however, Emma realizes that every eye in the room is still on her, which for some reason makes her  _ incredibly  _ uncomfortable. 

She turns to her savior, a tall, muscular man that she knows she has seen in here before, but never had need to speak with him -  _ the sheriff _ , she remembers someone calling him before. “Would you be able to help me take him home?” she asks, flashing him a small smile. “It might take a while for him to wake up, and I don’t want him spending the night on the floor of the bar.”

He returns her smile, hoisting the pirate up off the floor and onto his shoulder. “As long as you tell me how someone so gorgeous lives in my town and I haven’t even met her yet.”

He has a slight southern accent, and the honey-like flow of his words brings a flush to Emma’s face as she wraps her arm around the Captain’s torso, helping the sheriff pull him to a somewhat-standing position. 

Once out of the tavern, he gives her a few moments to speak for herself, moments which they instead spend in silence, before he repeats his question: “How is it that you seem to have caught the eye of our dear Killian Jones, yet I do not even yet know your name?”

“Killian,” she whispers, enjoying the feel of it rattling around her mouth, slipping off her tongue, but catches herself before her help questioned her again. “You’re the sheriff, right, sir?” she asks.

“So you have heard of me, then?”

“I’ve heard Captain Jones and his men speak of you, yes. Not to mention the women that work for Miss French, with whom I have been staying.”

“Only good things, I hope.”

“Actually, yes. Especially from the ladies, but even from the pirates.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, paired with a smile even more breathtaking now that they are out in the open, away from the crowding eyes of the tavern. “I can only imagine what Miss French’s girls have to say about me, but that does not answer my question.”

“Emma, sir. My name is Emma Swan.”

“And you’re a friend of Miss French’s?”

“Yes, she and I go back quite a few years.”

“You are in town to see her? A getaway of sorts?”

“An unexpected getaway, you might say. I seem to have just… found myself here one day, needing to get away from things back home.”

“And where is back home, Miss Swan?”

“Philadelphia,” she replies, continuing the lie she began in the tavern.

“I’ve heard good things about that city, but have not yet had the chance to visit. Is it anything like Boston?”

Emma thinks back on the books she has found in Belle’s library, where she has researched her fictional home. “Similar, yes. But Boston has its own kind of charm, something that always calls you home, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve tried to go home a few times, but I always seem to come back here.”

A few moments’ silence passes between them before Emma asks, “And what is your name, sheriff? I have given you mine.”

“Of course, ma’am, I meant no disrespect. Sheriff Humphrey.” He turns to her, again smiling over the body slumped between them. “Graham.”

“Well, Graham, I cannot thank you enough for helping me return Captain Jones to the  _ Roger.” _

Just as she mentions the ship, her sails appear over the rooftops of the last row of buildings before the docks. When she sees them, she remembers the night before, her conversation with Milah, and her invitation down to the docks that very day - and can’t help but wonder how it all may have gone differently, had she shown up that day. Belle called her crazy for doing so, but she still went nowhere without her pistol - thankfully, an older-looking model her father bought her her, a silver-plated revolver where most other badges carried newer-style pistols. If anyone where to really take a look at it, it would be obvious that it does not fit in the time period, but it looks well enough from a distance to fit were she ever to have to pull it on someone. She feels it in her hip holster, held up on a belt that one of Belle’s girls built for her to wear under the skirts. 

Could she have taken out the Dark One? She has shot criminals before, but she has not yet needed to shoot to kill - in fact, it’s something that terrifies her, something she hopes she never has to come to, but that does not change the fact that she might, one day,  _ have  _ to. If she has seen him there, ready to attack Milah, to attack Kilian, would she have been able to protect them? 

Graham must have been able to sense her uneasiness with the whole situation, for he lets them walk in silence the last block to the  _ Roger _ , and it is not until they are on the deck, one that she realizes is empty,  that she speaks again: “Have you been aboard her before, Graham?”

“Only once, and it was a few years back, when he first arrived in the harbor. But he hasn’t given me any reason to since.”

“Do you at least know where his cabin is?”

Graham looks around, hopefully trying to remember the answer to her question, but comes up blank. 

They both take another look around, landing on the same door together, one that leads under the helm, and decide to try that one first, finding exactly what they are searching for. Getting his body down the short ladder is difficult, yes, but they somehow figure it out - though if you were to ask them how, neither of them would be able to figure it out. 

They set him down on the bed, trying not to wake him, though Emma assumes that he is still out cold, especially given the four empty liquor bottles on the floor, which she assumed were not there before. Once he seems to be settled, Graham turns to her, holding out his arm as an escort. “Now that he is settled, m’lady, would you allow me to take you back to Miss French’s?”

She looks once again at the pirate, passed out on his bed, a man who has lost so much in the past few hours, and gets the sudden feeling that  _ here  _ is where she needs to be, with him on this ship, until he is healed. 

Graham must see it in her eyes, for he lowers his arm, raising his eyebrows at her, but says nothing. 

“No, sheriff, I believe I’m going to see to him until he is better. Can you take a message to Miss French for me, though?” Emma asks, setting herself down in the captain’s chair behind the desk, where she scrawls a short note to her friend:

 

_ “Belle -  _

_ I am spending the night with a friend who needs my assistance. I will return tomorrow for lunch.  _

_ Best, Emma Swan” _

 

“Thank you, Graham,” she says, and he flashes another smile that melts her insides just a little bit.

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Swan. Would it be alright if I return in the morning to check on the both of you?”

Emma returns his smile. “Of course. In fact, I would appreciate it very much.”

He leaves her with a kiss on the hand, climbing out of the captain’s quarters and closing the door behind him, which Emma locks. 

She does a quick lap around the room, taking in the maps, the candles; she has been on many ships in her life, mainly led through them by her father, but this is, by far, the most stunning one that she has ever seen, and in the most pristine condition. 

After lighting one of the candles by the bed to shine some light once the cabin grows dark, Emma climbs into the bed with him, sitting against the corner wall, and rests his head on her lap. Between the rocking of the ship and his slow, steady breath, it is not long before she is asleep, resting her head against the wall. 


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Killian notices when he awakes is his headache, worse than any he has woken with before, which makes  _ everything  _ hurt, a pulsing pain through his whole body.

The second thing he notices is that he is not alone, that his head rests in someone’s lap - in a woman’s lap.

For a short, heartbreaking moment, he thinks it is Milah, and that everything that he remembers was a dream - but given his headache, and the sunlight rippling off her bright, blonde hair, he knows he must be wrong, and like a knife to the heart, he realizes that this means all his memories are correct: the Dark One, Milah, his hand. 

He raises his arm to where he can see it without rattling around his pounding brain, and sees the evidence that he didn’t want, the void that the Dark One left in his life, taking his hand from him. 

Trying to sit up without disturbing his companion, he pushes himself onto his elbows, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of repressing the pain in his head and all over his body, but the stabbing shock up his arm is too much and he falls back onto the bed, landing with a thump on the mattress, his head back on the woman’s lap. 

She wakes with a gasp, then breathes a soft  _ “fuck” _ after her head hits the wall behind her. He arches his back to look at her, to learn who his savior is, though it turns out to be someone far from what he expected: Emma Swan, the woman from the pub that they had just met a few days prior, is sitting above him, her bright green eyes shining down at him.

“This is far from the way that I am used to waking up with women, you know, love,” he mumbles, pushing himself off his back again, only slower this time. Emma must see he is struggling, and she helps him, pushing him up gently off of her leg. 

Something in her wants to be surprised by the forwardness of Captain Jones, given that he just lost the woman he loved the day before, but his words awake something inside her, a fire deep in her core, and thought the flame is small, she still does not fail to feel it tremble within her. 

“What do you remember from yesterday?” Emma asks softly, helping him turn to sit beside her on the bed. 

“I'm assuming you are not asking about…” He lets his voice trail off, but holds up his stump of an arm for emphasis. 

Emma smiles at him sweetly. “No, I assume you remember all of that. But what happened after that? What do you remember, because I figure it gets a little blurry in there somewhere.”

He tilts his head back, resting it against the wall behind them. “The doc patched me up, wrapped up the hole he left in my arm, but the one in my heart was something only I could heal.” His voice is low, a soft growl. “I told the crew to leave me, to do whatever they had to do to find somewhere to be for the night, but to leave me alone with my ship. And then… I drank. I sat here and drank, but could not handle the memories of her, so I went to the deck, where it only hurt more. I know I left the ship, but the last I can remember, I was wandering the streets of Boston, bottle in hand. I reckon that was where you found me, Miss Swan?”

“Not quite, Captain - “

He reaches over and stops her with a hand on her arm. “Please, love. My name is Killian, especially now that we have spent the night together.”

She knows he is only trying to ruffle her feathers with his charm, but  _ damned if it doesn’t work.  _

“Well,  _ Killian _ ,” she continues, trying her best to hide just how much he is affecting her. “You came into the tavern ready to start a fight, but you didn’t last very long after that.”

“And you, uh, strong-armed me back to the  _ Roger  _ all by yourself then, Swan?” Eyebrows raised, he flashes her a devilish smile. 

“Do you not think I could?”

“I’ve learned to never doubt a woman who carries a weapon.” At first, she is confused as to how he knows - until she follows his eyes to the desk, where she placed her weapon the night before so it would not bother her as she slept against the wall. “But that does not mean that I cannot question her. How did we get back to the ship, Swan?”

“The sheriff helped me, actually,” she says, and she feels his quiet chuckle before she hears it. 

“The one person in this town that may have more knowledge of women than I,” he comments, a slight smile on his face. “Just my luck that you would be charmed by him before I get my chance at you.”

“And what if I find myself immune to both of your charms, Jones?”

“I have come to think that may be impossible, love,” he says as he pushes himself to his feet, choosing this moment to undo the buttons of his grey vest. Emma knows what he is trying to do, trying to get her to keep her eyes on his as he strips in front of her, but this still does not help stop her from doing just that. 

She eyes the patch of dark hair that covers his chest, leading down to his equally hairy stomach, and disappears under the top of his tight leather pants. When he turns around to ruffle through the closet, her eyes follow the rippling of his back muscles, the perfect way they all move together as he pages through the closet, pulling a bright red vest from a hanger and pulling it onto his body, first what is left of his stump-arm, then his good arm. 

He turns back towards her before she can regain her composure, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, and smiles at her. “Aye, that’s exactly what I thought.”

Now it is Emma’s turn to jump to her feet. “Well, Jones, I really must be going. You are to visit the doctor again, correct? Make sure he patches up your arm well enough?”

He stands inches in front of her, pinning her against the bed, smiling up at her over his eyelashes. “We could stay here and see to other matters, too.”

As charmed as she is by him, she knows that even with the note Graham delivered, Belle must be worried about her - and Belle matters more to her than a sharp-witted pirate. She pushes him out of her way, hands on his bare chest, re-holsters her revolver, and turns to the door, but stops when she feels his hand on her arm. 

“Will you come back and check on me, Swan?” His smile is still sly, but she sees something in his eyes: worry? fear? and she can’t help but smile back at him. 

“Yes, Captain Jones. I’ll be back.” She rests her hand on his, still on her arm, for just a moment, then turns away from him, leaving him in the cabin. 

  
  


“Emma! We were worried about you!” Belle is quick to greet her when she returns to the house, making her way to the kitchen to curb the hunger she didn’t realize she had until the walk home. 

“Didn’t you get my note? From the sheriff?”

“Yes, of course, he dropped it off last night, but you said so little in the note that I couldn’t help but worry about you!”

Emma smiles at her friend, spreading jelly over a warm piece of toast. “That was exactly why I sent the note in the first place, Belle,” she says with a laugh. 

“You made some impression on that man, Emma.”

At first, her mind goes to Killian, the flirtatious pirate who had not left her thoughts the whole walk home, but there is no way that Belle would know of any of that.

Belle must not sense her momentary distraction, for she just continues. “I have never seen Graham turn down one of the girls for a dinner date in all the years I have known him, but I saw it for myself last night, with my own two eyes.”

“He - Graham?”

“Well, of course, Graham. Who did you think I was talking about?”

“I thought - “ She pops the last of her toast into her mouth, then turns to the door. “Of course you were talking about Graham. Who else would it be?”

She gives Belle no time to reply, leaving her in the kitchen as she bounds up the stairs and into her room.

She does not know where her current energy stems from; just this morning, she was inches away from the arms of a beautiful spectacle of a pirate - so why is she suddenly running  _ towards  _ the arms of a sheriff that, unlike Killian, she had spoken to for the first time just the night before. 

Her hair is a mess, but running a wet comb through it makes it somewhat manageable, falling in soft curls to her shoulders. But where her hair was an easy fix, her clothing is _ not _ \- everything needs to be washed, and she does not want to wait for that. She finds another similar shirt in the closet, this time a dark blue as opposed to white, but it suits her. A new skirt, however, is a different story. They are not a regular in Belle’s wardrobe, for she is inclined to bright colors, showy dresses. But she finds one in the back of a closet, a bright white very unlike anything she is used to wearing, with a little more of a bustle than she likes, but it will have to do. 

There is a soft knock on her door as she laces up her boots, and the door is opened to reveal Belle, smiling at her from behind a tray of fruit. 

“And where are you going in such a hurry?” 

“I have to go, uh, talk to someone,” she says, taking an apple off the tray, then checking her hair in the mirror again.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Emma. I’ve seen enough people struck with the graceful charm of Graham Humphrey. I know what it does to a girl.”

She takes another bite of her apple, trying to hide her blush behind it.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. He definitely is a striking gentleman, and there is nothing wrong with spending time in his company.”

Emma sets her apple down on the dresser, leaning in towards Belle. “I’ve heard of his reputation. That’s not - I don’t normally go after men like him back home, you know? But he’s - there’s something about him, about this place, that makes me feel… different. Do you know what I mean?”

Belle smiles at her. “I know exactly what you mean. Just be safe, okay, Emma? Remember, there are things we have back home for situations like this that… may not be as safe here.”

“Are you giving me  _ the talk? _ ” Emma asks, returning her smile. 

“Just be safe.”

Emma pats her hip where her revolver is tucked away, knowing that’s not what Belle is talking about, but she hopes she appreciates the joke. “I’m always safe.”


	5. Chapter 5

Rapping her knuckles on the front door of Graham’s personal address, she cannot believe how she got here.

She knows she should just turn back, return to her lovely friend’s house instead of embarking on this maddening adventure - but there is something inside her that cannot bring herself to turn back, something calling her, telling her that she needs to go. In this new life, every moment is an adventure, one she may wake up from at any moment, find herself back on the 21st century Boston streets.

She had tried the police station first, but the desk sergeant told her he had not yet come to the station. When she had said that it was not for police business, he had suggested she try him at home - and that was an offer she could not turn down.

When he opens the door after what seems like at least a few minutes, he looks just as surprised to see her as she does.

“Emma,” he says.

“Hello, Graham.” She smiles at him and feels the blood rush to her face. “May I come in?”

He seems just as embarrassed as she is, running his fingers through his dripping hair.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He smiles at her, stepping out of the way to let her in.

His house is quaint, exactly what a 19th century bachelor’s place would look like, in her mind. Most of the downstairs consists of one large room, which he seems to use as the kitchen, dining room, and living room, all at once, though it is severely lacking furniture of any kind. He has a small dining room table, covered in papers and case files; a padded chair in the corner in front of a bay window; and a beautiful victorian-era roll-top desk encompassed by two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs for her, then begins to roll up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, leaning on the counter, his eyes fixed on her.

“Whiskey, if you have it.”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching behind him for the bottle on the counter, then pouring a glass for each of them before sitting across the table from her.

“So, what brings you here, Miss Swan?” he asks, taking a sip of the glass.

“Damned if I know,” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear her.

He leans in towards her, taking another sip of his whiskey. “You are unlike any woman I have ever met. You don’t act like the women I usually find crossing my path, yet I have been unable to get you off my mind since I first saw you. What do you suppose I should do about that?”

Emma looks up at him over the rest of her whiskey, her bright green eyes shining, and she feels her heart flutter in her chest. She challenges him: “What would you like to do about it?” She finishes her whiskey, then pushes herself away from the table, standing up to further investigate the contents of the living room.

She hears him set down his glass of whiskey, then push his chair so he can stand. Running a finger across the line of books, she pretends to read the spines, but is instead caught up in watching him approach her from the corner of her eye.

“You’ve been staying with Miss French quite a while now, I assume you’ve learned just what it is I tend to do with women who catch my eye,” he says, stopping just inches behind her. She feels his eyes on her, fixed like a beacon shining through the fog, but she does not turn around.

“You’re an impressive scholar, Mr. Humphrey.”

“Give me the chance, Miss Swan, and I’ll impress you in other ways, as well.” He sets his hand on her shoulder, and she turns towards him, closing the little space between them to kiss him, aggressive and needy.

He wraps his arms around her, pushing her back against the bookshelves, but it is here, in this moment, with his lips pressed against hers, that Emma realizes something deep within her, though she may not quite understand what it means outwardly: she wants _something_ , yes. Maybe even needs something. And though the southern sheriff is gorgeous and obviously ignites some sort of attraction within her, there is something _off_ about their interaction - while it may fill the hole within her, she somehow knows that it is not the right solution for her problem.

She leans her head back, pulling away from him for just a moment, and searches his eyes for _something_ , though she does not know what - though she does know that she does not find it.

“Something the matter, Emma?” he asks, but before she gets the chance to answer, there is a pounding on the door, which they then both turn to.

“Sheriff Humphrey!” Someone calls for him, continuing to pound at the door.

Graham turns back to her, eyes wide. “Emma,” he says, but she is already bounding across the large room, then takes a seat at the table.

Nodding to her, he heads to the door, and they are both surprised by the sight beheld on the other side: Killian, kneeling on the stoop, disheveled and bloody, his collar held by who Emma can only assume to be the Dark One that she has held so much about, though she would certainly not know that he is just a primitive version of her very own Mayor Gold. His facial features may look similar, yes, but everything else about him is surprising, from his shining, reptilian skin to his odd, armor-like attire.

“Killian,” she breathes, a surprising amount of hurt in her chest, seeing him there in that state.

Both of the guests are surprised to see her there, sitting at the sheriff’s dining room table, and she can see the pain in Killian’s bright blue eyes even with all the distance between them.

The Dark One, however, lets out a bone-chilling cackle at the sight of her. “Oh, Miss Swan, how nice to see you! I truly am glad you are here, dearie!”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Graham asks.

“Oh, yes!” The Dark One replies, as if he had momentarily forgotten why he was there in the first place. “Sheriff Humphrey, I need you to arrest this man.”

“On what charges?” Emma asks furiously, standing up so quickly the chair flies backwards away from her.

Graham turns to face her, eyes pleading. “Please, Miss Swan, let me handle this.” She takes a few steps back, searching for something to steady her before she falls.

“Why should I arrest this man, Dark One?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on him, on Killian, as the Dark One begins his barrage.

“He killed my Milah, my wife! Ripped out her heart right in front of me, so that neither of us could have her! Plus he killed two more of his men that tried to stop him. And I heard that he destroyed property at one of the local taverns.”

She feels her eyes well up with tears, blurring her vision, but she still does not tear her eyes away from him.

“And do you have proof of these crimes?”

“Proof!” He laughs again. “What proof do you need to put a pirate in irons, sheriff? It’s my word against his, and, really, who is going to trust the word of this criminal over the word of, well, me?”

Graham turns back to her again, only making eye contact for a moment as he steps towards the table, reaching for his old fashioned pair of handcuffs sitting in the center of it.

“Killian Jones, you are under arrest for the murders of Milah, two men from aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , public intoxication, and destruction of property, Do you have anything you would like to say for yourself?”

He breaks his eye contact with Emma to look up at the sheriff, and says softly, “I’m not going to fight you, mate.”

His words hit Emma like a knife to the heart: he is not going to fight, not even to save himself. And she finally realizes why she knew she needed to be here - not for Graham, but for Killian.

 

She wants to follow them to the station, begin fighting for his innocence as soon as she can, but the pain of seeing her innocent Killian in handcuffs is too much to bare, so she comes up with another idea. Instead, she breaks away from them and turns her attention towards the _Jolly Roger_ , her first step in piling evidence against the Dark One - and proving the innocence of Killian Jones.

The deck is still silent, the crew apparently still absent under yesterday’s order of their captain, but this time it helps her. At first, she knows nothing about what happened aboard this ship beyond what Killian told her just that morning: who was present, when exactly it happened, and, most importantly, where on the ship it all took place. It does not take long for her to find it, however: there, by the mast, she finds the first pool of blood - much less blood than she expected to find, given she heard the Dark One ripped Milah’s heart from her chest.

But then again, that’s a sight she never had the pleasure of seeing first-hand, so she really had no idea.

She follows the blood spatter across the deck, tracking Killian’s footsteps before he had the chance to get his arm taken care of. She notices the pile of ropes by the mast, not as perfectly coiled as the rest of the ropes of the deck. But, perhaps the most noticeable, is the track of smeared blood, from the mast and up the steps to behind the helm, where she finds the funeral-wrapped body, who she presumes to be Milah, right where the Dark One said she would be found.

Something crosses her mind just then, standing there looking at the dead body of Milah: autopsies. When did people start doing autopsies on dead bodies? If she suggested to Graham that they perform one on Milah’s body to help prove Killian’s innocence.

She does notice, however, the stunning lack of blood on the wrapped body, especially given her cause of death. She wants to unwrap the body, search for more evidence, but she also knows that it’s not her place, that it may do more harm to Killian’s case than help, so she leaves it for now, continuing her search over the rest of the ship, which seems to be fairly spotless.

She leaves the hardest room for last, the captain’s cabin. It looks almost identical to how she left it this morning, with the unmade bed, the messy desk, the rum bottles strewn about the room. But the one thing that is different is the one thing she can’t take her eyes off of: strewn across the bed and left there when he was taken from the ship is Killian’s long leather jacket. Pulling herself onto the bed, she takes the jacket in her hands, feeling it under her thumbs.

This is how Graham finds her, though surprised to see her. She does not know how long it has been since she disappeared from behind them on the way to the station, but he does not seem to be that worried about her, seeing her there like that.

“Emma, what are you doing here?”

At first, she does not answer him, entranced by his jacket, but when she does finally look up, the tears swelled up in her eyes surprise both of them.

“You know he’s innocent, right, Graham?”

It’s not what expects to hear from her, but he answers the question anyway: “I would like to believe so, but the Dark One runs this town. No one is going to go against his word.”

“I have to help him."

"Just a few hours ago, you were ready to give yourself to me, and now you're defending a  _pirate._ What am I supposed to think about you, Miss Swan?"

Finally, she voices something, a realization she came to for herself just earlier that day, though she is still confused as hell about it all: "I wasn't - I don't think I was there for you, Graham. I think I needed to be there to help him, to help Killian."

"Oh, that's just brilliant. You can't-"

"I  _need_ to save him. I may not have discovered that through the best circumstances, but I know it's the truth."

Graham must not have anything else to say, for he turns on his heel and leaves her sitting there alone.


	6. Chapter 6

She stands in front of his cell, looking down at him. He does not even look up at her as she approaches him, sitting in the far corner of the cell, his knees pulled up to his chest with his forehead resting on his good arm, crossed over his legs. She stands there for a few moments, taking him in, and it hurts her to the core. 

“Killian,” she says, resting her forehead against the cool bars, and his head snaps up, not even realizing she was there before. He pushes himself off the floor, having more control over his stump than he did just that morning. 

“Emma, what are you doing here?”

“I came to give my statement, but Graham told me I could come down here and talk to you alone for a minute.”

His eyes light up, just the smallest bit, but she sees it anyway, and she reaches through the bars to touch his arm. “You came here for me?”

“Of course I did. I know you didn’t kill Milah, and I’m going to make sure Graham knows it, too.”

“But, why? I’ve never done anything for you, Emma.  I almost threw a chair at you, I’ve done nothing to deserve your help.”

“I can’t give you a chance to prove yourself if you’re locked in a cell.”

He smiles up at her, his bright eyes still full of pain, but she is  _ getting through to him.  _

Suddenly, everything stops, like someone pressed a large pause button on the world. The footsteps from the station above, any movement from Killian or the other prisoners. The only sound she hears is the fierce pounding of her own heart, heavy in her ears - until there is an odd, bone-chilling laugh from behind her. She whips towards it, knowing she has heard it before, but not realizing who it was until she was face-to-face with his reptilian face: the Dark One. 

“Hello again, Miss Swan,” he says, smiling at her. 

“What do you want, Dark One?”

“You can call me by the name I was given, Rumplestiltskin.”

“You - what?”

“Yes, dearie!” He laughs again. “You may also know me by my, uh, more regular name, Mister Gold.”

“But Belle told me - “

“Yes, Belle said that I do not know of my future as Mr. Gold. But I had to keep up my facade with everyone, even my wife. I know of everything I have ever done, and all I will ever do. See, Miss Swan, that is why I brought you here.”

“You - you knew! You knew David would send me with Robin, you took the protection off the house so I would find the basement, and you -” She raises her eyes to him, coming to her final realization. “You opened the rift, so I would be sent here? Does that mean you can send me home, too?”

He laughs again, smiling at her with his weird, pointy teeth. “Well, well, well, isn’t that the question we would all like the answer to?”

“But can you send me home?” she repeats. 

“Is that what you really want?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to go home?”

“The question you should ask yourself, dearie, is if that is what you want  _ most. _ ”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“If going home is what you want most in this world, then of course I will grant your wish and send you home. But, if there is something in your heart that you desire more, than I am afraid my magic would be useless, and I would not be able to send you home.”

She turns around to face Killian, still frozen in his cell, and worry for him floods over her. “What about him?” she asks, not taking her eyes off him. 

“All magic comes with a price, dearie! If you decide that what you want most is to return back home, then you must leave this pirate to pay for his crimes.”

Emma takes a deep breath, her eyes locked on Killian. “And what if going home is not what I want the most?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. 

“If you find that there is something you want more in your heart and I do not have to send you home, then I will make sure that all charges against our Captain Jones here are dropped.”

She turns back to the Dark One, her eyes wide. “You would do that for him?”

“No, Miss Swan, I would do it for you.”

Before she has a chance to even think of a response, he claps his hands and disappears in a cloud of smoke. She has just a moment to herself before the world begins to play again. 

“What’s the matter, Emma?” Killian asks, the spell broken, and he must see the change in her face, but she just smiles at him. 

“Nothing. The opposite, actually. I may have just discovered the answer to all our questions.” She reaches through the bars again and presses her palm against his stubbly cheek. “Just give me some time.”

“Well, love, I’m certainly not going anywhere.”

 

She needs to talk it out, but she has no one to go to. She assumes that Gold hid the truth from Belle to protect her, so she cannot go talk to her; anyone else would think she was insane. She is fresh out of options.

Her mind is wandering with her feet, going nowhere in particular. 

_ What does she want most?  _

_ Why  _ shouldn't  _ she go home? David must be worried sick. He has lost everything else - Mary Margaret, and now Emma.  _

_ There must be something  _ else  _ calling her home, other than her father. What did Robin tell him happened at Gold’s house?  _

_ But what is keeping her here? She may have only been here for a few weeks, but  _ something  _ is begging her to stay. Ruby, Belle, Graham, and, of course, Killian. Something is calling them together, and that is  _ not  _ something she can just ignore.  _

She looks up, wrapped up in her mind, to see where her feet have taken her, and finds herself outside of the tavern, the very place she met her pirate in the first place. Of course, she must go in, and she finds that much of the regular crowd returned, the collection of pirates in the far corner, and she cannot help but smile. One of them sees her and calls her over, but she only waves back, taking a seat at the bar, behind which stands Ruby. 

There must be a look of worry plastered on her face, because Ruby is in front of her before she even sits down. 

“What's the matter, Emma?” she asks, already pouring her the regular glass of whiskey. 

_ What's the harm? _ , she asks herself.  _ If nothing else, Ruby will be able to help send her heart in the right direction.  _

“I have a decision to make. One that's turning out to be extremely difficult, actually.” 

“Well then you're in luck, because there are people lining up at the door for my problem solving skills. Let it out, darling.”

“I've been given the opportunity to return home, but it would prohibit me from helping someone I've come to care about, someone who, without my help, may find himself on the wrong end of the rope. But if I decide to stay here and free him, I may never be able to return home again.” 

Ruby is taken aback for a moment. “This is a dire choice, well, isn't it? All I can say is that only you know the right decision to make. Follow your heart, Emma. That’s what I would always do. What does your heart want you to do?”

She knows that it is Ruby talking to her, but her question reminds her of someone more prevalent in her life, someone else that always swore by following your heart to make every decision: her mother. 

This just makes her think of her mother, and all the things she used to say about her relationship with her father: that they were meant to be together, brought together through tough, unreasonable circumstances - if her mother could only see her now, brought to the man she wants to be with by  _ time-travel _ . But her mother always said that she would have done anything to be with David, however crazy those choices may be. 

And now she is faced with just that: a crazy, unreasonable circumstance. She does not even know if Killian returns her affections - he  _ just  _ lost the woman he loved, had her die in his arms less than 24 hours ago. 

Would it be crazy for her to decide to stay, not knowing what the outcome would be? 

_ Yes. Of course that’s crazy. _

But does that change the decision she has already made in her mind, the decision to stay here to be with him, to  _ save  _ him?

_ Of course not.  _

She downs the rest of her whiskey, thanks Ruby, and leaves to find the Dark One. Once again, she allows her mind to take over, to take her to where she thinks she will find him - and when she looks up, she is standing on the dock, looking up at the sails of the  _ Jolly Roger.  _

“You have decided then, dearie?” he says, standing behind her, though when she turns around to face him, he is not the weird, reptilian Dark One, but the Mr. Gold that she remembers from back home, in a black pinstripe suit with normal human skin. “What’s it going to be?”

“If you know of everything that is to ever happen, then don’t you already know my decision?”

“Well, yes, of course, but I still need to hear you say it for it to come true.”

“Oh.” She takes a deep breath, stepping onto the dock of the  _ Roger _ . “Then yes. I choose to stay here. I choose Killian.”

He claps his hands together and changes back to the Dark One, laughing in a cloud of black smoke. 

“And so you will have it, dearie. I will go speak to the sheriff, and bring your beloved pirate back to you, here, on the ship.”

And, just like that, he is gone again, in another cloud of smoke, leaving her alone on the dock. 

Slowly walking onto the deck of the  _ Roger _ , she takes very careful steps to the beginning of her future. Unaware of what to do, she finds herself wandering around the deck, trying to get to know it better. She goes below-deck, where she has never been before, though it does not really help her, because she still is not sure what everything is, where on the ship she is. So she heads back to somewhere she knows, somewhere she feels comfortable, peaceful: the captain’s cabin. 

Here, she softly runs her fingers around the wall: the door of his small closet, his shelves, full of books and trinkets, the maps hanging on the wall. But once she gets to the window, she stops, her eyes fixed on the horizon. 

It is familiar to her, the horizon that she remembers from all the hours she spent on the beach, on fishing boats, just sitting on the docks with her father. 

_ Her father.  _

She needs to talk to the Dark One again - what are they going to tell her father? Obviously not the truth. Are they going to tell him that she is dead? 

And, more importantly,  _ is he going to be okay? _

She must have lost track of time, because when she comes back to reality, it is because of the footsteps she hears above her. 

She cannot even imagine the awkwardness that had to have happened on the walk back from the station, between Killian and the Dark One. Not only did the Dark One rip out Milah’s heart in front of Killian, and then chop off his hand, but he also then imprisoned him for just those crimes. 

They are right above her, no doubt finding the same thing she found behind the helm earlier that day - a sight she has no interest in encountering, the two of them stumbling across the body of their dead wife. 

In the silence of the cabin, she hears them talking, merely mutterings through the floorboards. Part of her wants to know what they say, but she is still glued in place by her own thoughts, of her decision to save a man whose intentions she is unaware of, to give up everything she knows in her life for someone she barely knows. 

And then, she hears something that draws her back to reality again: shouting, from above-deck. Whatever went on above her, their conversation has become heated. She tries to strain her ears to hear some of what they are saying. And then, too late, she realizes the footsteps have disappeared above her, having instead gone down the steps and to the door to the very room she is currently standing in. 

The door slams open, and she snaps her head towards it. They are just as surprised to see each other, she and Killian, and for a moment, everything stops, the only thing either of them seeing is the eyes of the other. 

She can see the pain in his shocking blues, the emotion leftover from whatever happened above-deck between him and the Dark One; he can sense her surprise, her timidness for the future, her fear. 

Finally, he says, “What are you doing here, Swan?”

“Do you not know? Did he not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” He looks down to his feet, clenching his jaw as he takes a deep breath. He just wants to be alone, only with his ship. 

“I saved you, Killian. I made a deal with him, with the Dark One, to let you go, drop his charges against you.”

His head snaps back up, his eyes wide. “You - you made a deal with him? Don’t you know, all of his deals come with a price? I am not worth it, worth whatever he offered you.”

She has no response to this, simply trying to find some sort of answer in his eyes - but it is Killian that finds something in hers. 

“ _ No, _ ” he whispers, shaking his head, beginning to close the space between them, though he stops after only one step. “Tell me you didn’t, Swan. Tell me you did not give up something for me, when I should have just rotted in jail.”

“But you have done nothing wrong, there’s no reason - “

Furious, he takes another step towards her. “Do you really believe that? I am a  _ pirate _ . I have done many things wrong in my life. I couldn’t save Milah from him, just like I couldn’t save Liam all those years ago.”

“Not being able to save someone is not the same as killing them,” she says softly, filling the rest of the space between them. 

“It might as well be. I should have saved her. I  _ could  _ have saved her.”

His eyes leave hers, shooting to the desk, and she sees what he is looking at: a large silver hook, which he picks up and eyes in his hand. 

“I stabbed him, you know,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “I struck him right in the heart with this hook, but he laughed at me, disappeared, and left it on the deck of the ship.”

He turns his attention towards what’s left of his arm, where a doctor seems to have added a cap for attachments. He slides the back end of the hook into the attachment, twisting it in place; it is almost as if the cap was made for the hook. 

“I’m going to kill him, Emma, you know that, right?”

“Killian, not everything has to be about revenge,” she says softly, her hand pressed against his vest. 

When he turns his face down to her, his eyes are wide with rage. “I have nothing left to do. He has taken everything from me.”

“You still have your crew, your ship.” She searches his eyes for some sort of sign, for something to tell her how he will react to her next words. “You still have me.”

Something passes through his eyes, but she does not know quite what it was. “Emma, I cannot ask you to stay here, cannot ask you to stay with me.”

She feels her voice begin to falter, coming to the reality of her decision once again. “I have nothing else.” As much as she tries to hold it back, her voice cracks, but she manages to hold herself together. 

“Aye, we seem to have that in common.” She can hear the sadness in his voice, but she does not fail to see the slight smile he flashes her. “We make quite a team, you know, Swan,” he says after a moment. “So what should we do? Two people with nothing left but each other? We have the whole world in front of us.”

She laughs with him for a moment, the warmest moment either of them have felt in almost a day, and leans up to kiss the pirate’s cheek, completely unaware of how he is going to react. She does not shy away from him, instead standing her ground just inches away from him, and when he smiles down at her again, she feels her face begin to redden. 

“I knew you were warming up to me,” he jokes, but then his expression grows grim. “You really are something, Emma,” he mumbles, his voice more serious than last time. “But I’m going to need some time before I am ready to move on, before I can forget my Milah.”

“Of course, Killian, I would expect nothing less,” she whispers, giving him some space. “That’s not why I saved you.”

“But you’ll tell me one day why you did it, then?” he asks, joking again - he really is all over the place. 

“Aye,” she says, smiling. “But for now, I am just a friend to this lonely pirate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the last chapter - we'll see how the wind blows. Be on the look-out for my next fic, which I have already started and am excited for!


	7. Four Years Later, Minus a Day

Emma stands next to Killian on the deck of the  _ Roger _ , looking out over the waters of the Boston Harbor. She can see the tension the floods his body: the muscles moving in his back under her hand; the flex and relax of his jaw as he grinds his teeth, chews on the tip of his tongue; the movement of his arm as he runs his fingers along the curve of his hook. 

They have spent the last four years sailing up and down the eastern coast of America, searching for adventure and revenge. Mr. Gold - the Dark One - Rumplestiltskin - whatever moniker he was hiding under these days, has disappeared from the Boston area, from the eyes of Captain Jones, and even with four years of searching for him, no one knew where he was. 

But Boston became a tradition, even with how much it hurts him, to return to this very harbor on the anniversary of Milah’s death, to the very place that Killian lost his love, visit the pub where they spent so many days together and share a drink in her honor. Sure, it hurt Emma, further proof that the man she traded everything she knew away for was still in love with his dead Milah (not to mention the tattoo on his forearm that was a constant reminder to him that she was gone), but the pain it caused Emma was nothing compared to the heartbreak that Killian goes through every year - every  _ day _ . 

When he turns to her, she is surprised - this is the first year that he has held himself together enough to not cry for Milah, to not let his tears fall into the same ocean that he dropped his love into four years ago. 

“Killian,” she says softly after a moment, but in lieu of an answer, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. It is as much of a sign as she requires: he wants to be alone. With a soft pat on the back, she leaves him there alone, looking over the waters. She saunders to the other side of the deck, looking towards the city as opposed to the open water.

She always ends up here, staring back at the city so different than the one that she knew under different circumstances. She gets lost in her thoughts, her mind rippling from one subject to the next: her childhood spent on these waters, her parents, the father she left behind to save Killian, and the future she had in the 21st century. She always gets stuck here, lost in the ocean of her thoughts, trying to decipher whether she made the right decision four years ago when she left behind everything she knew to save Killian from his death. When she closes her eyes, he is there, smiling at her on the best of days, a brightness of excitement and adventure in his blazing eyes. It has not been easy for her, spending all this time loving a man that is so closed off, unwilling to move on from the death of his Milah, but she owes him her patience - she knew it would not be an easy ride when she decided to stay, and she is sure in her heart that one day he would realize how much he means to her, how much she has done for him, and maybe allow himself to love again. 

She feels a tear fall slowly down her cheek, one that she did not even know was coming. She does not wipe it away, letting it slip off her cheek and into the waters below - but before it can do that, she feels a soft finger against her skin, wiping it away, and she does not have to look up to see it is Killian. 

Reaching up, she takes his hand in hers. “Killian,” she whispers, barely audible over the sound of the waves, the water crashing against the hull of the ship. But he squeezes her hand in his, stopping her words before they can even begin. 

“No, Emma, please. Let me.” His voice is soft, sad, and she turns towards him, surprised by this outburst of emotion, even in the present circumstances. “Four years is a long time to be without someone, without the one that held your whole heart. But being here, feeling her here in the way that I do, made me realize something. This is not what she would have wanted. Milah had a heart full of love, love that I never deserved from her, but this - she would not have approved of how I have been acting. She never would have wanted me to drown my love for her in sadness, and my loss of her in rum. Never would have wanted my whole life to revolve around revenge for the man that took her from me.  

“No, what she would have wanted is for me to allow my heart to be as full of love as she always was, to dedicate my time and my passion to something more light and lovely.” He pauses for a moment. “To open my heart to love again, instead of continuing to darken it.”

She takes a moment to lose herself in his eyes before she asks, “Are you - what are you trying to say?”

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me, Emma. Someone would have to be blind to miss the fact that you love me, but I never allowed myself to reciprocate for the sake of Milah’s memory. But I have finally realized that she would not have wanted me to be pining over her, sad about her death, for the rest of my life. She would want me to give in to my feelings, to follow my heart, and allow myself to love someone the way I once loved her, someone that cares about me deeply.”

“Killian,” she breathes again, her heart pounding in her chest, in her ears, rattling her whole body, and she takes a slow, shaky breath. “Are you…” She knows exactly what she  _ wants  _ him to be saying, but she does not want to take the chance to reply and somehow be wrong. 

But she does not need to - in lieu of a response, he leans in towards her, planting her lips against his. The fingers of his good hand twist in her golden curls, and she slides her hands up his chest to clutch the lapels of his leather jacket. Much to her surprise, she feels his tongue on her lower lip, as plea to deepen the kiss, even though it is the first one they have shared. The curve of his hook pressing on her hip, she turns them so her back is against the wall **_,_ ** his body pressing into hers. She reaches up, leaving one hand secure on his jacket, and weaves her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck. 

After a few glorious moments, they break apart, Emma releasing his jacket to cup his stubbly cheek, staring into the never-ending bright blue soul found within his eyes. But there is something else there, something beyond the emotion tied to their shared kiss. Something… darker, peeking out from behind the light. 

Keeping his body pressed against hers, she feels something in him change, a shift from the affection inside him to something more raw. 

“Emma,” he says finally, his voice a low growl. “Do you know how long it’s been since I held a lass in my arms?”

“I would imagine about four years, right?” she replies with a smile, looking up at him shyly. 

“Aye, but those four years have felt like a lifetime. Would you do me the honor of joining me in my cabin?”

“Now? Killian, are you sure?”

He takes a moment, looking deep into her eyes for some sort of clue as to her feelings. But after this moment, he says finally, “I have never been so sure of anything, Swan.”

She looks over his shoulder, out onto the deck of the ship, where the crew seem to all be minding their own business, but she severely doubts that no one saw the kiss they just shared. He must sense what she is looking at, for he lifts her chin with his hook, pulling her gaze back to his. 

“Do not worry about them, love. They have pledged their lives to serve me, and that includes keeping my secrets for me.  _ All  _ my secrets. And if those secrets involve you, then they are pledged to keep it to themselves.” He kisses her again, pulling her body closer to his. “What say you, Emma? Will you join me?”

After spending a moment inside her own head, she realizes something: this is  _ exactly  _ why she decided to stay, in hopes that one day she would be able to call Killian her own. So now that he is finally giving himself to her, why is there any question in her head? 

Getting no response from anywhere in her body, she smiles up at him, feeling her answer with her whole body: “Of course I will.”

But as she follows him to the captain’s cabin, she realizes something: He has bared his whole heart to her, leaving nothing behind. It’s time for her to do the same. 

He closes the door behind them, already sliding his arms out of his jacket. Emma hangs it on the hook behind him, but then stops his from continuing by taking his hand in hers and wrapping her fingers softly around his hook.

“Killian, I have something I need to say first,” she says softly, sitting him on the bed. “Promise me it won’t change the way you feel about me, though?”

“Aye, love.”

And so she tells him. She tells him everything, her words starting slowly as she paces across the room before him: how she was born in the year 1983, raised in Boston at that time, and followed her father into the police force; her marriage with Neal, his death, and her reaction to it; how the mayor’s wife went missing, and when she was searching for her, she found herself in the year 1818, two hundred years before she left, in just moments; how she found herself in the tavern, drawn to him like a fly to honey.  She told him that in order to save him, she gave up the ability to return home, to a world where everything was clean and new and made sense - a world that she traded for his freedom, for the hopes that one day he would realize he returned her affections. She told him everything, and he listened intently, his eyes following her around the room as she continued to pace. 

When she is finished, she leans on the table, her knees almost touching his, her eyes fixed to a spot on the floor between them. 

Killian takes a minute to process all of this information, keeping his eyes fixed on Emma, but when he finally speaks, he asks the one question that he cannot fathom in his thoughts:

“You gave up your ability to return home for me?”

She raises her head to meet his eyes, surprised that this is the first thing he needs to ask her after all of the information that she has just dumped on him. 

“I spent over ten years dedicating myself to saving the innocent, Killian. For every case I worked, I was sure to gather all of the evidence I needed before pointing fingers, especially in something as important as a murder case. It’s not my style to let someone pay for crimes they did not commit, and it was definitely not my style to let  _ you  _ suffer further for what happened to you. So when I had an opportunity to free you, the ability to save your life, I took it. Even if it was selfish, hoping that one day you would maybe be able to return the feelings that I had for you, I had to do it.”

His lips were on hers as soon as she got out the last word, his arms wrapped around her, and her fingers find their way into his hair again. There is nothing holding them back this time, and he spins them around, her legs against the mattress for just a moment before he lays her down upon it, gently pulling himself on top of her. Her fingers find the buttons of his vest, quickly relieving him of it and tossing it to the floor. She runs her hands over his bare chest, feeling him beneath her hands, the stretch of his muscles, the pounding of his heart.

Everything about being with him feels so perfect, and they fit together like they were made to be that way. Being with him, having him for herself, is something that she has dreamed, imagined, daydreamed about over the past four years, since the very first night she saw him in that tavern. But actually having him here with her, together in every way, is better than anything she ever imagined.

At first, he is gentle, holding her close and discovering the things she likes most, running his hand over as much of her body as he can reach, learning the feel of her skin, the curves of her; but when he hears her call out his name, her fingernails digging into the skin of his back, it awakens something within him, an energy that he finds himself suddenly unable to contain, using it to get him to his peak. 

He collapses next to her, holding her body against his. 

“Well, fuck,” she says finally, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. 

“Aye, love. That we did.” His voice is hot on the back of her neck, sending a chill down her spine. 

“Now what do we do?” she asks, turning her body around to face him, her fingers stroking the back of his neck, searching his eyes for some sort of answer. 

“Well, love, we have the whole world before us. Where is it you would like to go most?”


End file.
